


The Method

by thorin_ohhhkenshield (thorinlock)



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Abduction, Comedy, Dark Comedy, Delusion, Gen, High School, Kidnapping, Mental Illness, Murder, Mystery, THIS IS NOT A JOHNLOCK STORY OR EVEN A SHERLOCK STORY, dissociative personality disorder, hallucination, twist - Freeform, twist ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-19
Updated: 2013-12-19
Packaged: 2018-01-05 04:42:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1089742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thorinlock/pseuds/thorin_ohhhkenshield
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock, or "Joe", is a student in a typical and insufferably boring high school. As an aspiring detective, he spends most of his time detached from the realities around him, dwelling instead on the fantastical mysteries he makes up in his head. Sherlock's not much for talent, but he has the determination to make things happen for him, and one day, chance meets him head-on. Students start disappearing mysteriously, sending his lazy suburban town into a frenzy. Sherlock takes the case up eagerly, thinking that it will be a breeze, only to meet with various challenges as his skills fail to combat the perplexing circumstances surrounding The Case of the Missing Students. That is until he meets the enigmatic John Watson, who pledges his loyalty to him in hopes of finding the students of Woodrow Wilson High. However, all it not as it seems. Sherlock comes to realize that there is more to the case than  he ever imagined, and his new friend Watson starts to become a mystery unto himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Method

**Author's Note:**

> I started out wanting to write simple Sherlock Holmes fan fiction starring Holmes and Watson. However, I ended up taking the original idea and transforming it into something much darker and unexpected. Presenting “The Method”, a modern-day Sherlock Holmes-inspired dark comedy centered around the mysterious disappearances of students in "Sherlock's" high school. "Sherlock" is what the main character calls himself, although it's not his real name. This is not a strict fan fiction, since it does not explicitly star Holmes and Watson. It is inspired by the Sherlock Holmes books, movies, and TV series.

  
**The Method**  
_by Dorothy Cheng_  


Mary Anne Fletcher was the girl of every boy’s dreams. At only 18, she was as stunning as a young Rita Hayworth sashaying into Bogart’s world. She had this rare nostalgic air about her, as if she was from some distant mysterious past. She had long, blonde, wavy hair and crystal blue eyes as alluring as the welcoming oblivion of the deep ocean. When I looked into Mary Anne’s eyes, I saw my future. I saw revolution and revolt and restitution. Fireworks. Freedom. Fun.

She insisted to be called Anne. But only in her full name, in its glorious and beautiful whole, could I truly picture the real Mary Anne Fletcher, perched primly and properly on the dusty steps of Woodrow Wilson High, reading an old, tattered copy of Tennyson.

One day, Mary Anne disappeared. She didn’t show up to poetry class, nor did she attend any following classes; she didn’t even go for lunch.

Truth was, no one really cared. She may have been the most beautiful girl for miles, but she was never popular and never had any friends. Well except for myself, of course.

Oh yeah, I nearly forgot to mention. She’s blind.

So how in the name of God was she able to read that damn Tennyson book?

These are the gripping questions of our times, and I am here to answer them.

Everybody moved on, and nobody ever spoke of the day the blind blonde disappeared. Until, one day, Robbie Thomson disappeared.

This one caused a huge uproar. Our friend Rob here was the star quarterback of the high school football team. He was taller than my twin sisters stacked up on one another, buff as a buffalo, and was a carbon copy of Ken. Here’s the catch: he’s not stupid. He’s the reincarnation of Einstein. Guess all that 999,999 failures and theory of relativity crap finally paid off in the afterlife.

His girlfriend, Karen Williams, was cheerleader-pissed. She star–jumped, cart wheeled and chanted her grief and anger away to win the state cheerleading championship. She gave a heartfelt, tear-jerking acceptance speech about Robbie, to a standing ovation, of course, and then bedded the linebacker afterwards.

Not that I sympathize with ol’ Robbie. He was a self–glorifying, rich–ass, cheating, playboy jerk. No, actually he was a great guy. Maybe that’s why we all hate him. “We”, as in the dudes of W.W. High. No, we did not abduct him.

You must be thinking: who are you anyway? Who’s this guy? Sherlock Holmes? Scooby Doo? Nancy Drew?

No, I am not in league with Mystery Inc., nor have I been screwing the Hardy Boys. I like to think of myself as more of a Sherlock Holmes, slash Casanova, slash Rhett Butler character, but if I had to choose- I’d say I was the Sherlock Holmes of the modern era. One thing’s for sure – I’m gonna get back the students of W.W. High.

Rumors and speculations started from the chess club – three time regional champ Chester Stuart coined the ridiculous notion that Robbie took off with Mary Anne. You can imagine the bitch slap he got from the cheerleading squad.

From there, the rumors spawned stories, and those gave birth to fables and myths and eventually legends. Soon, everybody just stopped wanting to listen to anything anybody had to say about the issue.

Two months into Robbie’s abduction, our perp struck again.

Sophie Armstrong was the star senior student. She was captain of the women’s hockey team and played for the state. She was the valedictorian, editor-in-chief of the school newsletter, student advisor of the debate team, and she was also the class president. She was a rather attractive brunette – rumored lesbian, though.

This time, the authorities started to get really worried. Three missing kids from the same school couldn’t really warrant as a coincidence. Was someone targeting the kids of W.W High?

Initially, they didn’t care. Like Chester Stuart, they believe the kids just took off, and these were just missing persons cases. To them, it usually just meant elopement, involvement with drugs or gangs, or alien abductions. And the last one was way out of their league.

And then I thought: what if those kids really did run away? Sure, it was all wrong. It didn’t seem likely that Robbie Thomson and Sophie Armstrong would just throw away their futures like that, and none of them took any provisions with them. And Mary Anne couldn’t really expect to survive alone, could she? But all these theories weren’t very unlikely. As star quarterback, Robbie was probably vulnerable enough to succumb to peer pressure or the high expectations thrown on his shoulders and went into drugs or even steroids. Maybe someone found out. Perhaps he even went skint. And Sophie Armstrong? Maybe her phantom lesbian lover does exist. And maybe Mary just died on some interstate trying to hitch a ride from serial rapists.

And then just barely two days after Sophie disappeared, Brett Colson missed Thanksgiving. This changed everything.

Brett Colson was the mayor’s son — a sickly, boyish–looking punk rocker who was known for defying his father and the expectations of being town royalty. The news drew national coverage. We had ABC and CNN and NBC at everyone’s doorstep asking questions and happily soaking in Chester Stuart’s melodramatic conspiracy theories.

Known for his reputation of being a screwed up juvenile offender, Brett Colson would often pop a few pills or squeeze in a few shots before he went joyriding around town, terror–wrecking, chaos–spreading… the boy was a freaking vampire. God knows he looked like one, and drugs and booze were his bloodlust.

It set my investigation into wheels of chaos. The three initial victims were linked by their reputation of being clean. They were, to the normal person’s eye, good, normal, average, typical teenagers. And then Brett Colson got himself thrown into the mix and made them a jumble of odd characters: the star quarterback, the class president, the wallflower, and the junkie rocker. A gathering of oddballs, if I ever saw one.

With that information in mind, theories could only get wilder about what our perp trying to do. Was he trying to accumulate stereotypes to create a replica of real high school life? Is he a just another American psycho?

Sure enough, 42 days later, Jessica Steward disappeared.

I kept tabs on these kids. I followed them. I set up precautions. I was bent on keeping them from abduction – to catch the perp. But she just vanished, from under everybody’s nose, my nose—just like that. And my nose never fails.

I kept records of certain kids, classified and chosen by their likeliness to get abducted next. And frankly, I was surprised. Jessica was nowhere near the top of the list.

I spent my time obsessing over Karen Williams. Queen Bee, Prom Queen, Head Cheerleader. Next to Karen, Jessica was unsubstantial. Unimportant. I thought, since we have a quarterback, junkie, president, wallflower, why not throw in the goddamn head cheerleader? I was thinking “head” because these kids were the best at what they did. Captain. Frontman. President. Blind. Well, I have the consolation of knowing that I was at least half right.

They did abduct a cheerleader, but not the head.

When I tried warning Karen Williams, she shot me her classic dirt glare and snarled at me: “Go. Away.” Two talon–sharp, nasally, cruelly whispered words pulled together over her vampiric canine teeth to form the coldest, meanest of all commands.

Well, it’s her skinny neck, I thought.

Jessica Steward always played second fiddle to Karen. We all know she’s got the hots for the linebacker, but nobody touched Karen’s assets. But why, though? Why was she number two? She was infinitely less vicious than Karen, just as good–looking, and just as good a cheerleader. The mysteries of high school may never be solved, but that’s why I’m here, isn’t it? Leave it to Sherlock Holmes to solve an age-old American mystery.

The sixth abduction was expected. A little 14 year old Iraqi boy genius named Jerry Abdul Ghaffar. The boy’s name itself was ironic.

He was on an overseas placement program, won every “genius is my middle name” contest and award out there, and had no friends whatsoever; because all the kids and teachers in school thought he was a terrorist.

Six abductions. My head was spinning. God save our school and its dwindling population.

I had no leads. This perp was an extremely slick one. No footprints, no shady characters hanging outside school, no fingerprints, no sweater fabric snagged on the windowsill…

The police had no idea either, but they still pointlessly worked their butts off for the mayor’s sake, who was a very intimidating man. Maybe he drove his son away. Maybe Brett couldn’t take Old Man Colson anymore and fled.

This thought led me to my newest theory: that all six abductions were not related. I collected as many facts as my expert condition would allow me, combined those with witness observations, and of course, my excellent intuition and brain power, and drew up a list to hand over to the cops in hopes of aiding in the investigation and gaining my rightful reward and recognition for my efforts. I would be the town’s first consulting detective, and if I’m not wrong, the only one in the world.

_W.W. High Abductions – Strictly Confidential._

_Mary Anne Fletcher – probably kidnapped by gut traders. They’re most likely going to sell her innards, or possibly her skin, since it’s so beautiful in all its ivory pureness. They’d probably leave the eyes alone, though._

_Robbie Thomson – most possibly involved with drugs supplied by gangs, couldn’t pay, and then got kidnapped by those scary dudes from the neighboring town. Anticipate ransom call with scratchy signal – I doubt those guys pay their phone bill._

_Sophie Armstrong – eloped with lesbian lover to Vegas. You might be able to stop her if you know where to look – I’ll give you a separate list of homo wedding ministries and strip clubs._

_Brett Colson – committed suicide/overdosed/went on a killing spree/drove off to Texas to become a minister. Hey, you gotta expect the unexpected._

_Jessica Steward – Alien abduction. Let her be, she is where she belongs now. There’s nothing you can do to stop this. Offer my heartfelt **congratulations**  condolences to her parents._

_Jerry Abdul Ghaffar – went off to join al–Qaeda or the Taliban. They probably sent him to the wrong place. Perhaps they thought Woodrow Wilson High was a president of the United States, and sent Jerry to eliminate him, except after spending months collecting information, Jerry decided that the mission was futile._

_I would expect a reward in USD 25,000 cash. Please do not disclose any of my personal information in the exchange. Please represent me in offering condolences to the parents of Mary Anne Fletcher, Brett Colson and Jessica Steward. I would appreciate it if I would be credited, albeit anonymously, in the assistance of helping solve this case_.

_Yours most sincerely,_

_Sherlock Holmes_

They rejected it. They sent me away, laughing heartily at my expense, going all “Wachoo been smokin’, boy? I don’t wanna have to nab you for possession!”

I felt hopeless. Useless. I spent days moping and sulking, dreading the day. I was not made for this. I cannot save the students of W.W High. One by one, we would get exterminated, until there was no one left but me. And then it would be between me and the perp – my Moriarty – the ultimate face off. And then I would lose, and let down everyone who believed in me and counted on me to bring their children and friends home.

No frickin’ way, I told myself. Sherlock Holmes does not give up.

And so I got dirty. I put my gloves on, kept my tweezers and my magnifying glass in my school backpack, and bought a pair of sunglasses. Ray Bans. Even Scooby ain’t got my style.

I swaggered into school and told myself – screw evidence collecting. I’ll wait till everyone’s gone first. I’ll begin with interrogation, and with all my bombardments, people will crumble under the pressure and reveal to me their deepest, darkest secrets.

W.W High is as big as the damn White House. Bigger. No wonder Al Qaeda got confused. As I strutted down the hallway to my locker, I carefully began profiling the student body silently in my head.

Couple making out – perhaps they hold vital information regarding Sophie Armstrong – lord knows what kids these days do in Vegas. Jesus! Why the hell does he have to stick his chompers in hers like that? Don’t eat her face, dude… perhaps he is normally this aggressive. Maybe he got into a fight with either Brett or Robbie… I shall call him Russell Crowe. As for the girl… One word: suspicious. Did she get with Brett or Robbie? Or possibly even Sophie? I’ll call her Paris.

Emo kid squatting in the corner with head held in hands – Unsubstantial. Weaklings like him don’t have the willpower to do anything. Or do they? Jared Leto.

Bored–looking bubble gum girl – So definitely a crack smoker. Sarah Michelle Gellar.

Linebacker – STRIKE GOLD!!! He sooo wants Robbie finished. Dick Cheney.

Karen Williams – I shall call this one Karen Williams.

Prefect – Nobody can have THAT many pimples and warts at the same time. Must be a disguise. This one’s a John Heder.

Gangsters from the hood – DRUGGIES! I’ll alias them Mobb Deep. Whatever that is. Saw it on gang leader’s jacket.

Shady dude – Whoa. Talk about competition. Never seen anyone that mysterious looking since myself. Where’s he from anyway?

Two seconds later I realized he’s standing in front of my locker.

“Ahem,” I cough. “That’s my locker.”

“Says who, Sherlock Holmes?” he had one of those lame, raspy, husky voices that actors used in the 40’s to show that they were mysterious. I get it already, mystery guy – you’re mysterious. It’s still my locker.

“Says the school board,” I retort.

He scoffs. “You’re smooth.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? And since when were kids allowed to wear trench coats to school, man? We have a uniform here.”

“Take it easy, Sherlock. John Watson is in the house.”

“What?”

“What’s your name?” he asks, smirking underneath his tweed cap and sunglasses. Who on earth wears sunglasses in school?

“Sherlock Holmes,” I joke.

“Ha ha. I almost believed ya’. I’m John Watson.”

“What do you want?” I demand.

“I want to help you. I know what you’re doing behind the walls of your bedroom.”

“Do you, now?”

“The investigation!” he quickly pipes, realizing his blunder. He then starts laughing to himself.

I squint at him suspiciously. “And how do you know?”

“You’re not exactly discreet.”

“Hey, you! Napkin Head! Look here! Yeah, I’m talking to you, you rule–breaker. Not so slick now, huh?” John Heder was marching up to us, his slacks strangling his balls. His index finger shoved his glasses into his eyes as he barked, “What are you wearing?”

“You don’t have to reprimand me, prefect. I assumed it was Halloween,” John said, with all the Rhett Butler charm I wished I had.

Heder stared him down. For a whole minute.

“Uhh…” I said again to Watson, “Can you move, please?”

Heder’s hand shoots up to my face to halt me and sneers at Watson, “It’s May.”

“Ahh…Well I uh… I uh… I just came back from Afghanistan with my parents, and things are hectic and all, I can’t see straight…” Watson lamely explains.

“What’s your name, Napkin Head?” Heder snarls.

“John Watson.” There was no lie in his eyes. I raised my left brow at him.

“Very funny. I think we’ll just stick to Napkin Head. What’s that piece of outdated, unfashionable cloth you got clutching on to your scalp huh? What’s that?” And what’s this?” Heder tugs at Watson’s collar. “We have a uniform in this school, Nappie. Is that so hard to comprehend? You’re the tenth kid this week I’ve confronted for not wearing his uniform right. Do you know how sacred this uniform is? It represents the students of W.W. High; it shows the public our integrity, our discipline. It took a lot to make this uniform, do you know that, huh, Nappie? Do you know? And you’re not even wearing your uniform!”

“I am!” Watson quickly interjects. “Underneath.”

“I – DON’T – CARE!” Heder yells. I jump on the spot.

“Jesus, prefect, keep your balls in your sack, man,” I mutter.

Heder turns to me, menacing. His eyes pop out of their sockets, his upper lip curls, his fists clench, his pimples ooze… a nightmare. The three of us stand there like that for a few seconds: Watson’s eyes clocking from Heder to me, Heder up in my face, me trying to keep his pustules from erupting into my nose, and then, mercifully, the bell rings. Heder gets distracted.

“Run!” Watson whispers and we both take off at full sprint. I could hear Heder behind us, screaming, “Come back here, Nappie! And you, Ballface! You’re gonna be in so much trouble! I got your name, Napkin!”

By the time we’re well out of Heder’s sight, we’re clutching our sides, laughing hysterically.

“Jesus, Watson. I gotta admit,” I pant, “You got style.”

“Yeah, but I don‘t have them Ray Bans.” He laughs.

“I’ve never seen you around before. Where are you from?” I ask.

“That’s unimportant. What’s important is this – I am just as determined as you are, just as smart, just as sneaky. I want to get our students back. Can I join you?”

I consider for a moment.

“I believe our partnership could really turn things around for this investigation. Share the load,” he says again.

“So… as of now,  _if_  I say yes,  _unofficially_  you will be Watson, and I will be Holmes? They’ll be like, our aliases?” I ask.

“Sure, if you want. Although, John Watson  _is_  my real name. Don’t ask,” he quickly says.

I consider for a moment.

“Hell yeah.”

Watson snickered and said,

“Just out of curiosity… what do I call you in school? In front of other people?”

I thought for a moment and shuffled closer to him.

“I used to call myself Sneaky Joe before all this Holmes stuff. Nobody really knows my name anyway, so I guess you can call me Joe,” I whispered.

“Sneaky Joe’s nice. Holmes sounds like an old dude. But then again, seeing as I’m Watson, you should be Holmes,” he whispered back.

“What about Heder? He knows your real name.”

“Who?”

“Heder. That prefect.”

“Why do you call him Heder?”

Quickly, from my backpack, I withdrew a copy of the list I had given to the cops and gave it to Watson to read. Meanwhile, I compiled the list of suspects I had observed just now in a rough scrawl and gave it to him as well.

He chuckled and said,

“You sure are observant, Holmes. But I gotta be honest with ya’, this stuff ain’t gonna run for long.”

“What do you mean?”

“All this stuff about alien abductions and Al Qaeda – that ain’t something we can really investigate. And the common knowledge for all detectives is: There is  _always_  something to investigate. Try to think of the most probable things that could happen to high school kids. For example, if Brett Colson really  _did_  commit suicide, someone would’ve found the body by now. If Sophie Armstrong really got married, we’d have something to trace. There isn’t even any gang activity in this area that is significant enough for us to worry about. We live in a suburban, white neighborhood, Holmes. And that thing about gut traders, dude – what the hell? You can do better than that.” As he is saying this, he is removing his cap and trench coat to reveal his uniform underneath. He looked just like me – a shocking revelation, I must say. I thought I was unique in myself. We both had the same brown hair, tussled up into the same short crop, we both had brown eyes, and we had the same face shape. The only thing that people could use to distinguish between us was the fact that I was the more handsome one.

I sniff. “So Watson, what the hell do we do now?”

He stuffs his clothes into his backpack. “Good question. I guess we could go to class.”

“No! Heder is in there prowling the hallway like a frickin’ ghost!”

“So we sneak in!”

“What are we gonna accomplish by going to class? We might as well take this opportunity to sneak  _around_. Look for clues, you know?” I propose.

“Fine. Where do we start?

I pause for a while. “Good question.”

“Holy raspberries!” he suddenly exclaims.

“What?” I fall to prone position, looking out for Heder.

“Jesus, Holmes.” Watson laughs. “Heder ain’t here, I just had a sudden revelation.”

“Don’t Jesus me,” I scold. “What is it?”

“Okay,” Watson’s face and voice had a serious edge on it now. “Think, Holmes. What is the one thing these kids had in common? Think! I know at first you can’t see a thing that they have in common – they’re all so different. But just… think harder – one activity that they all share. One place they frequent all the time. Got it yet?”

“Uhh, no. Just tell me!”

“Okay: the gym.”

I space out for a while, thinking.

“Galloping Mahoney’s… Rob has practice there with Jessica, who cheerleads, while Sophie is sticking flyers, while Mary is in the corner reading, while Brett sniffs glue in the backway!” Watson says triumphantly.

It seems like a long shot, a desperate reach, and I start wondering if maybe we should just go to class anyway.

“This is gym time we’re talking about here, where they’re physically free to do anything they want – no boundaries. No CCTVs, or the league of angry butch feminists will make some noise. Has it ever occurred to you that these kids were all abducted – but nobody knows from where? It’s too random to pick the kids out from the toilets, besides, to accomplish that, our perp would have to be both male and female, unless there were two of them. The library is loaded with CCTVs and teachers and a posse full of Heder-ass-kissers. The cafeteria is too crowded, and it’s got camera surveillance too. But the gym… Heder doesn’t go near there – he’s scared shitless of the basketballers. To date, they’ve given him about 52 wedgies. It doesn’t matter whether they’re there or not, Heder is traumatized by the place itself. And behind the gym is this empty scary-ass spot where kids go to do stuff – like, you know, Brett Colson kinda stuff. It’ll be the perfect place!”

“My dear Watson, what would I do without you?” I ask in my finest British accent, hiding the fact that I was less than convinced with his theory.

“Nothing much.” And with that final sentence, Watson zipped off in the direction of the gym, skillfully leaping over rosebushes and dodging Heder’s Confederacy. Finally, we reach the large peach-colored building and step into the basketball stadium. The place was deserted.

“We’ll split up, look for clues!” I command.

“Yessir.”

Watson was busy prowling the court, while I tackled the seats looking for secret messages hopefully dropped by a careless suspect.

Minutes passed and the both of us still had nothing.

“Watson,” I call out occasionally, “Do you have anything?”

“Nope.”

I sigh. At this rate, by the time we find the students it will be of their remnants.

Suddenly.

“Sherlock! Holy cow, Sherlock! I actually found something!” Watson chimes.

I race down the bleachers and stumble onto the court, blundering straight for Watson. He holds up a piece of paper for me.

“It’s a note,” he says.

“Show me,” I pant, grabbing the note from Watson.

“Read it out.”

I stare at the piece of paper.

“Watson,” I clear my throat, “it’s blank.”

Watson frowns, a look of utter confusion etched on his face.

“But—” he begins, snatching the note back, “I’m sure I saw something. I saw handwriting!”

I lean over his shoulder to look at the note.

“I’m sorry, bro. I don’t see nothing.”

Watson huffs disappointedly and crouches down on the court, holding his head in his hands.

“I can’t believe it,” he mutters.

“What?”

“Shit. It’s happening again.”

“What’s happening again?” I ask, getting slightly annoyed now.

“It’s just—even last time, every time I think I got something I don’t actually have anything. I fail.”

“What do you mean last time?”

He doesn’t answer and continues clutching at his head, groaning softly.

“Watson, are you alright?”

He starts breathing heavily, rocking back and forth, his groans growing louder until they become frustrated wheezes.

“It’s happening again, isn’t it?” He chokes back tears.

“For god’s sake, Watson.”

Suddenly he stops. He is as motionless as a still object, and then out of nowhere, he pounces to his feet, one hand clutching my shoulder painfully.

“Sometimes, some things just can’t be understood. We need to move on and move forward.” And then he walks away.

“Watson!” I call after him. I bend down to pick up the note he let fall (hey, anything can be a clue) but when I look up again he was gone.

“What the—”

I run out of the gym to see if he was anywhere at all but he wasn’t.

Strange, I remark to myself.

I went back to class, surprisingly without any disturbance from Heder, excusing my lateness with a bad case of diarrhea. The rest of the day went on normally, but all without a sign of Watson.

I went home that day feeling completely lousy and uneasy. As I entered through the door of my home mother peers at me, wide-eyed and concerned from over the top of her newspaper. I meet her gaze and immediately feel the ground sink and my spirit explode into ash. This is the signal that I was ‘home’.

“Hey, buddy. How was school today? Everything alright?” she asks softly, the tone of compassion in her voice setting my skin afire with hatred.

I glare at her, refusing to answer. I drop my bag at the entrance and without shutting the door, walk right past her.

“Are you alright?” she calls after me.

I was home again, where everything diminishes and all the magic is brought back to reality where it is crushed like a cockroach under the foot of a relentless giant – I was home again, where I will be trapped until the next morning.

Home was like an institution that was keeping my heart from flying, my mind from soaring. If I could, I would burn home down and everything I’ve ever known with it.

Watson. I twitched, halfway up the stairs, losing my footing and stumbling down the last few steps. My eyes trail upwards to the dark hallway of the second floor. Is that him at the dark corner there, grinning maniacally at me from the shadows?

I blink thrice and take a deep breath, counting silently in my head, just like Dr. Stamford told me to. Watson vanished.

I skipped dinner, instead locking myself in my room to jot down all my thoughts in the case file.

Watson missing? I wrote.

I thought about what he said to me, about how some things can’t be understood. Is that what was happening to me now? Is this why I can’t seem to get around the case of the missing students of the school? Am I not meant to understand their disappearance?

And with that final thought, I flop down on my bed, feeling the waves of sleepiness dawn over me. I don’t move; I can’t move. There was an itch above my brow but I didn’t bother to scratch it. Didn’t bother or couldn’t?

“Are you alright up there? Want me to bring some food?” mother called from downstairs.

I wish she would just disappear. I wish I would never have to hear her speak again. There was nothing at all interesting or exciting about her or this house.

“Joe, are you alright? Answer me.”

To hell with her. Or maybe she wasn’t the problem. Maybe it was me.

“You need to come down later to take your medication, or I will come to you.” She is silent afterwards, thankfully.

Maybe some things in life are just what they are. Utter confusion. Senselessness. Things that are not meant to be understood.

Yes, that’s what it is. That’s what this whole thing is about. It’s just been one big merry go round of me trying to make a head and tail of things that run in a natural circle of life.

So that’s my conclusion. They disappeared? They ran away? Whatever. My answer is that I don’t think I’ll ever find out. I don’t think I’m meant to know. I don’t think it can be explained.

Slowly, I feel my body relax. I feel like liquid. I feel transparent. I feel like a formless entity. I feel myself fading into the air. And it feels good, it feels right. It feels like it’s meant to be. I’ve never felt this at home before.

I was finally moving forward – going where the past can never find me.

And then out of the corner of my eye, I spy a dark silhouette stepping out from behind the shadow of my closet, an instant chill engulfing my body.

Watson grins at me with jagged teeth colored red with blood, the whites of his eyes gone but now black as coal. He holds out his palm to mine, but I cringe at the sight of his hand so scarred and wounded.

“What’s up, buddy?” he asks. “Any leads?”

I sit up on my bed, my eyes going over him as if I’m just seeing him for the first time. I was right earlier – he looks exactly like me, except, this was some macabre version of what would be my corpse – grey skin, dead eyes, rotting limbs, torn clothes… but his grin never leaves his otherwise stoic face.

“I’m trying to figure out what’s happening to me,” I simply say.

Somehow, the grin grows wider, nearly tearing his cheeks apart and exposing more teeth and gums. His eyes widen and the blackness seems to sink inward.

“Observe, Holmes. Use your detective skills.”

He reaches out a scraggly, decomposed hand and rattles my closet violently, the doors throwing themselves open with a loud bang, a rotting stench suddenly wafting out into my room.

And from within the dark shadows of my closet, I spy a girl, blonde and beautiful like the morning sky, her body twisted and contorted under a heap of other bodies. My heart catches in my chest and on my bed, I crawl closer to have a better look.

Mary Anne Fletcher’s grotesque mouth was gaping open at me, her blackened eye sockets screaming death.

I turn to Watson, whose gruesome exterior had now faded only to become an exact replica of me, and I whisper to him fondly,

“You know my methods, Watson.”


End file.
